


A Lion's Tears

by Chatika (salamanderssmile)



Series: In fide aeternam [5]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Burns, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Officially And Undeniably No Longer Platonic Love, both physical and emotional we're going for the long haul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 18:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/Chatika
Summary: The Golden Lion does not cry, for his eyes are cold, and always fixed on a distant horizon. Knights, however, have hearts to hurt, and hearts to mend.





	A Lion's Tears

**Author's Note:**

> hi! it's me again! it's been a long time, huh? I'm so fucking sorry. college was not kind to my writing, and a writer's block didn't help. but here we are. two mental breakdowns and bad shit i needed to forget later.
> 
> Beware the path ahead, for there be dragons. (And gays. Who kill dragons, incidentally.)

“Thou shalt respect me, boy!” The shout was loud, almost thunderous. It inspired no fear in Faraam, however. He was much too angry himself.

With a final snarl, the Prince of Sunlight turned his back to his father, walking down the hall away from Gwyn with heavy steps. He was furious, and his glare made those who crossed his path look away. Faraam didn't mind; he wanted to break something, and it could easily be bones. The scents and sounds of dinner being prepared drifted from the kitchens as he crossed the halls. _Respect_ _him,_ Faraam ruminated. For what? The blatant disregard his father had for so many of the warriors under his command? He couldn't - no, he _wouldn't._ Refused, really, to give Gwyn any more undue reverence. He was the Great Lord’s son, and still was second to every minute desire of his father’s. His heart coiled, dark and angry and thorny, around the memory of Ornstein’s consecration as a dragonslayer. The ever growing sparkle of hatred in his chest made him feel hot in the most unpleasant way. 

Faraam made his way to his own chambers, finding them blessedly empty. He wanted to scream and rip something apart, but all he did was curl up around himself in bed, hoping to calm himself with sleep. Not that the storm in his mind would allow him rest. His father’s condescension a dark smoke around him, choking and harsh. Faraam covered his head with his arms. He wanted it gone. He wanted to  _ be _ gone.

The doors to the Prince’s chambers opened quietly, and were closed with just as much care to silence. Whoever it was, was certainly not a servant, as they remained unannounced. Their steps were soft, a confident cadence that Faraam knew all too well, stopping before the bed, kneeling down. Gentle hands pried his arms from around his head. Soft fingers brushed locks of silvery hair from his face, a caress that begged him to open his eyes. The affection in the gestures soothed his heart into tenderness, bestowing a calm he yearned for.

“Faraam.” The voice was sweet to him. “Your Grace, prithee, awaken. I worry.”

“For thee, my knight, and thee only.” Faraam replied, taking the hand in his hair between his own as he sat up. “Though wherefore shouldst I rise from bed, Sir Ornstein?”

“For dinner, of course!” The knight’s serious voice and slightly drawn in eyebrows brought a smile to the Prince’s lips.

“I fear I am less than presentable.” He said, noticing Ornstein’s donned armor and orderly hair.

“No such thing is ever true of thee.” The knight’s lips curled slightly upwards as he rose to his feet. “Though I shall aid thee if thou dost wish.”

He pulled on the Prince’s hands until he stood up, following Ornstein with confusion in his face. The knight guided him through the quickly darkening room to a dressing table without a mirror. The thing was old and looked thoroughly unused. Still, Faraam sat on the stool in front of it as he was silently instructed to do. His confusion was not lessened in the least by Ornstein rummaging through the mostly empty drawers of the table. His mouth was open, about to speak, when the knight stood again, a hairbrush in hand. Faraam frowned, looking between his friend and what he held. The Prince slowly raised a hand as if to object the current sequence of events before sighing deeply.

“Thou shalt do as thou wilt, regardless of my pleas, shalt thou not?” Faraam said, the voice of a suffering man.

“Most likely.” Ornstein’s smile was big enough to show teeth, and for that sight alone, the Prince forgave him.

“Then linger’st thou not on this torture further.” He said with a sigh, closing his eyes.

Faraam waited for a rough pull of strands, as when he was a child and the caretakers used to brush his hair for him, but it never came. The hand on his head was gentle, and it took him a moment to realize Ornstein must had taken his gauntlet off just for that silly stunt. The brush slowly carded out the knots with utmost care. Faraam found himself shivering with delight as the fingers scratched his scalp, searching for more knots. He had never found the experience of others touching his hair to be a pleasant one,before; perhaps for that reason he kept it so long, ironically. But Ornstein’s earnest softness - truly something even the Prince did not normally associate with the knight - was… lovely, for lack of a better word. It filled Faraam’s chest with warmth, like a fire in the cold. He found himself at a loss of what to do with his hands, when what he wanted - to take the knight’s own between his and kiss his fingers in gratitude - was clearly beyond an unspoken limit that had been established. Distracted as he was, the Prince didn't notice that the brush lay on the table once more, yet Ornstein remained behind him, carding through his hair.

“What holdeth thee there?” Faraam asked, moving his head ever so slightly, receiving an exasperated sigh in return as the knight gently readjusted strands in his hands.

“I wish to braid thine hair. Thou’rt not opposed, art thou?” Ornstein stopped moving entirely, waiting for the Prince’s response. Faraam, however, simply sat stunned, before realizing a reply was wanted out of him.

“I am not.” His voice was quiet, soft. More an admission than a permission. He closed his eyes as the knight finished braiding his long hair.

“Thou couldst be the one god of Bounty and Beauty.” Ornstein whispered, distant sadness in his voice, as his hands trailed over the Prince’s shoulders before stepping away.

“Where didst thou learn this?” Faraam asked, cheeks growing red as he pulled his hair over his shoulder to look at the orderly braid. “The royal caretakers have rougher hands than thine, and they are not accomplished warriors.”

“Oh! Hah… I learned it long ago, afore I became a knight.” The Prince turned to look at the other man as he spoke, once more dressing his gauntlets. “My father did teach me. He hoped for the position of royal courtier for me. I suppose, however, I am not too far from such.”

Ornstein’s smile, a barely there curl of lips, spoke of nostalgia as he finished fitting his own gauntlets over his forearms. The dying rays of twilight, gold and orange, painted him stunning in warm colors, red hair bright, light copper skin shinning. Standing up, Faraam thought that whoever his knight’s father had been, or still were, did not have such outlandish dreams. His sister and father would gladly accept someone as beautiful as the redhead into their service. Might have even invited him. The Prince smiled, a small, crooked smirk; because the knight chose not the path of court, but of War. A deep seated satisfaction coiled around his stomach in warmth as he thought of  _ his _ knight, choosing  _ him _ over others. Same knight who looked up at him with slowly blinking eyes and a raised eyebrow.

“I hope, You Grace, thou dost not think thyself ready.” Ornstein said with a dry tone, chuckling at the confused - and offended - expression on the Prince’s face. “Forgive’st thou my rudeness, but thou dost need to don thine armor, Faraam. I shall wait outside for thee.”

“Art thou not to help me?” Faraam asked with a pout as his knight walked out of the room with an impassive look. “It is a courtier’s work, after all.”

“Fortuitous I, then, who am no courtier, but thy knight.” Though Ornstein’s expression remained stony, his tone of voice was humorous, bringing a smile to the Prince’s face.

As he took off his coat to dress the leathers and plates of his armor, Faraam noticed, baffled, how easily his knight cheered him up. The man’s very proximity brought to his heart an easy glee, a feeling of weightlessness. It never failed to bring smiles to his face, the genuine happiness that he associated with Ornstein’s company. He thought of the constellations of freckles on the knight’s cheeks, on the bridge if his nose, the scars that cut through them. The Prince wondered if they hurt when he smiled, if they pulled when he frowned. His fingers itched at the thought of tracing them, of tracing the knight’s lips. Faraam shook his head, taking a deep breath to clear his mind. The thoughts had been chasing him ever since the consecration. He wondered if they would have been worse had they kissed on the balcony. He sighed, grinding his teeth as he opened the door to his knight’s straight back. Whatever could have been was not, and thus meaningless to think of. Ornstein turned around, bowing before him, a proper reverence.

“Your Grace.” His voice was heavy with something that cost the Prince a while to recognize as admiration. “Shall I walk along thy side?”

“As is thine wish, my knight.” Faraam replied, affection cutting his tone into softness.

They walked in silence through the halls already lit by dozens upon dozens of candles. The beauty of the Cathedral was undeniable, even when the sun was not bathing it in gold. Yet it rolled over the Prince, who had long since grown almost tired of his family’s home. Intricate details lost their appeal after seeing them every passing hour of one’s life. His thoughts once again chased after the freckles on Ornstein’s face. He wondered if he would ever tire of them, as well. Somehow, Faraam strongly doubted it. The smell of food and the noise of the conversations washed over the pair in waves. The hall was already full of Lords and servants as they arrived. With a final look to each other, they went their separate ways: Ornstein to one of the tables nearest the royal family’s, and Faraam to his father’s side. The Prince sat stiff under Gwyn’s glare. It seemed the Lord of Sunlight was not ready to let the argument from earlier in the day go.

“Gwynsen. Art thou satisfied, or dost thou still wish to continue on thy tantrum?” The Great Lord’s posture was casual as he cut into his food, but his tone dripped acidic from his mouth.

Faraam did not deign him a reply, nor a glare. He did not even spare Gwynevere or Gwyndolin, finally old enough to sit at the table without a caretaker, a look, so as to not cross gazes with his father. His heart slowly coiled around thorns, light from Ornstein’s presence giving way to the dark smoke of anger. Faraam thought of saying something, anything, to spite his father, to prove him he was not “throwing a tantrum”, but nothing came to his mind. So he ground his teeth, staring holes into his plate of food. He slowly started eating, ignoring his father as best he could, hoping the Lord would simply leave him be.

“Thou art fetching with a braid, brother dear. Thou shouldst wear one more often, instead of an oversized rat’s nest.” Gwynevere spoke, sharp smile making him roll his eyes.

“What giveth thee the impression I wished for this?” He replied, voice filled with mock annoyance.

“Wert thou held down and forced into having thine hair braided? How terrible, brother.” Her eyes were wide in fake alarm.

“Thou art not far from the truth, though I will admit I was not  _ held down. _ ” Faraam stated, closing his eyes for a moment before returning his focus to his plate.

“Whosoever would be capable of forcing my dear elder brother into such a terrible fate? Would it perhaps have been thy knight?” The Princess’ smile was crocodilian: wide, smug and all teeth.

“I…” Her brother blinked wide eyes as his cheeks heat up. “So it was. What of it, sister?” Gwynevere’s laughter rang clear, cackles full of mirth at the Prince’s frown.

“Should I assign thee a courtier of thine own, Gwynsen?” Gwyn’s voice was cold as it crawled over his son’s skin. “He is thy knight, not  _ spouse _ . He should not visit thy chambers to braid thine hair.”

“He is my  _ friend _ , lord, my father.” Faraam said over the weight in his stomach. “Of whom I have few.”

“Then thou shouldst seek more among Lords, not  _ humans _ .” The Lord spat back, looking imponent and reproachful as he straightened his back to look down at his son.

“If thou art so bothered by the idea, wherefore dost thou not forget it?” Anger blossomed hot in the god of War’s chest as he glared at his father. “It is clear I have not thy blessing for it, thou need’st not remind me.”

“From whence one come’st, more shall be borne.” Gwyn replied in what was almost a threat. “And I shall curb them in their cradle.”

“I shall create this covenant, whether it is to thy liking or not, lord, my father.” Faraam snarled, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, warriors under thy blessing. Can’st thou not be content with Silver Knights?” The Lord of Sunlight didn't waver before the Prince’s anger. “Humans were not meant to mingle with our kind without purpose. They need know their place, and thee, thine.”

“ _ They _ serve thee braver than these pathetic Lords who do naught but sit in gilded chairs as good soldiers die to give them all they want!” Faraam’s voice rose with each word, until he shouted over the voices in the hall. He scanned the crowd that stared at him with venomous eyes before whipping his gaze back to his father. His eyes were narrowed, and his voice was a quiet angry hiss. “I shall leave thee to thy despicable court. My appetite eludes me.”

His father gave him but a half-disgusted huff as he marched his way of out the hall with angry steps. He wanted to roar, shout his anger until his throat bled. Faraam realized he had never known hatred as pure and unbridled. He almost foamed at the mouth in anger as he slammed open, and shut, the doors to his chambers. He forcefully took off his armor, feeling as though it constricted him, and threw it on the floor in a haphazard mess. His blood sang with aggression, boiling in his veins. He wanted something to break between his hands, to rip throats with his teeth. His skin felt too small around his muscles as he stepped outside, into the small balcony attached to his bedroom. Anor Londo sprawled under him, the mansions of Lords competing between themselves in a grandiose display of wastefulness. Faraam gripped the railing, holding back a growl. He refused to be like them.

 

Ornstein wasn't surprised at the Prince’s shout, much less his exit. He watched, quietly, as his liege bared his teeth to his father, anger etched onto every inch of his body. The knight was not surprised, but that didn’t mean he wasn't shaken. Sometimes he forgot how brightly War burned. Because while bright, Faraam, to him, was sunshine and soft rain. His presence filled Ornstein’s heart with indescribable happiness, a comforting warmth. It was not often he saw War’s unbridled rage. He feared, not his Prince, but  _ for _ him. The knight worried, as he knew Faraam too well, too keenly, and cared for him too greatly. He thought of the sweetness in the god’s voice as he braided his hair. Ornstein wanted to hear more of it, always, forever.

The knight waited, as to not further ruffle the court’s feathers, to excuse himself from dinner, and head to the Prince’s chambers. The Cathedral, always so beautiful he couldn’t tear his eyes away, was nothing more than a distraction as he marched through corridor after corridor. Ornstein couldn't find space in his heart care about the delicate beauty engraved into every wall at that moment. He was not beset with urgency, but a heavy weight in his stomach. He wanted to know what caused Faraam’s outburst, and he wanted to squash it so thoroughly his Prince would never need to worry again. Pathetic aspiration, perhaps, to protect a god from what would distress him so, but still, the knight held tight to it. For it was his duty, as his dear Prince’s knight, to keep him from harm.

The doors to Faraam’s chambers were wide and tall, clearly made for members of the royal family, and thus he didn't need it open from wall to wall to walk through. Ornstein made sure his steps were loud enough to be heard across the room as he searched for the Prince with his eyes. He found only the discarded set of armor, scattered about the room in all directions, probably thrown in a fit of distaste. The knight paced around the bed, finally catching a glimpse of the platinum braid in the balcony. His breath caught in throat at the image. Faraam was wearing nothing but the underclothes of his armor: a loose linen shirt and well fitted leather pants. The moon borrowed his form a silvery sheen of perfection. Ornstein resisted the urge to groan, taking a deep breath as his cheeks dusted pink. He walked towards the balcony to stand by the Prince, a step behind him. 

“Your Grace?” He said in a quiet voice.

“I wish not for company.” Faraam replied, similarly quiet, yet infinitely more distant.

“Your Grace?” The knight’s voice was all confusion, only strengthened by the Prince’s prolonged silence. Gently, he reached for Faraam’s arm. Ornstein could feel the tendons on the inside of the god’s wrist with the tip of his fingers, and the contact felt oddly intimate. “Prithee, Faraam, give’st thou me an answer.”

“Lay’st thou not a finger upon me!” The Prince snarled, baring his teeth in rage, pulling his arm away abruptly. His eyes were narrowed, lips curled in distaste.

“Faraam…” Ornstein’s voice was barely a whisper, shaky, as he cradled his own hand against his chest as if it burned. His eyebrows furrowed every so slightly as he felt his eyes sting. He didn’t understand what had just transpired.

“Leave’st thou me be. I wish not for thy company.” Faraam’s tone was final.

“Of course. As is thine wish, Your Grace. I shall bother thee no longer, if such is thy desire.” The knight said. In his eyes were etched the hurt, the sadness, and the anger at such mistreatment. He, too, was final as he bowed before leaving with quiet steps. As the doors closed, Faraam slammed his fist against the railing in regret and anger. His eyes watery, in a mirror of the first tears he had ever seen shine, though unshed, in his knight’s eyes.

 

The silence was heavy between them as they marched, ever onward. Faraam wanted to scream, fall on his knees, beg forgiveness. He did none. He could not get the words to come out of his mouth whenever he opened it. He didn't even really know what to say. His heart was full of regret as he looked at his knight, golden and elegant, walk alongside him. Ornstein was proud, and the Prince knew he would not come to him. Then again, he did not deserve it, did not deserve  _ him. _ He couldn’t see the knight’s eyes in the shadow’s of the visor. The golden snarl remained, impassive, threatening, metal gaze fixed in a lost point in the horizon; just as the knight beneath, who had grown distant in the passing days. It was just as golden as the gaze hidden beneath it, but it held not a fraction of its weight, or beauty, in Faraam’s opinion. Regret ate his stomach from the inside as he yearned to see Ornstein’s face, his eyes, not twisted by hurt, but full of the same lightheartedness he inspired in the Prince. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, but nothing came out again. He closed it, sucking air through his gritted teeth.

They made camp, the sprawling army taking hours to settle. Faraam sat in his tent, alone, reviewing the strategy for the next day’s battle. They would fight by the seaside, and that would give them an advantage against the dragons’ fire. Or so they hoped it would be. The Prince well remembered Ornstein’s stony, merciless face as he said the sea would simply become the pot they boiled in. The image was undeniably unsettling, if for no other reason than the fact it was all too realistic. Havel, the only General even more diminutive in size than the Golden Lion, also claimed his agreement with him. Between the two of them, Faraam knew, was the greatest experience with dragon fire of the entire army. As it were, Gwyn agreed to plan a retreat in case the scenario unfolded. They could not leave their backs open, least they wished them to be ravaged by teeth and claws. The Prince reviewed the plans alone, then. He did not search for his knight, and his knight did not search for him.

The army amassed in its battalions under the rising sun; neatly formed divisions under commanders and captains. The Generals stood ahead, eventually parting to their own respective detachments. Over the crowds, Faraam could see Gough talking to his archers, stringing his greatbow. His enormous form was stark against the pale gray horizon. The Prince stood before a small group composed of both Silver and Ringed Knights, even some Slaves. They had all accepted his blessing, and his pledge. An idealistic one, yes, but inspired by golden radiance. His Warriors of Sunlight, so he called them, made in the image of the Prince’s Golden Knight, arguably the first of them all. Ornstein stood by him in stony silence as he addressed the warriors. Even through all uncertainty, the knight’s presence gave him confidence.

“Warriors! You all have been blessed by War! War, not victory. War, not conquest. Each and every one of you are here to  _ fight. _ ” His voice carried over the solemn knights in front of him. He knew he didn't inspire confidence with his words, but they were but a warning. “Each of you beareth the standard of Sunlight, miracles of lightning I bestow upon you! For each of you is a knight in the image of the best dragonslayer I have ever known. And as he is, you shall be strong. You shall fell dragons. You shall prevail. Such is your duty. March forward, and fulfill it!” 

The men roared in response, but Faraam’s gaze fell upon Ornstein, who quietly looked up at him. He hadn't known. The covenant, a dream the Prince had one day, was inspired by the sight of the knight: golden, elegant, undeniably powerful. The Heir knew quite well none other would ever compare to his knight, but these men had his blessing to  _ try. _ For it simply was that he saw Ornstein as the best a warrior could be. As a god of War, that fact alone was more than a statement. It was a blessing in and of itself, as well. One he had once thought he would never bestow. Before they marched onward, for the first time in too long, Ornstein approached him, silent. He took Faraam’s hand in his, looking the Prince in the eyes for a moment before letting go. His gaze was heavy with meaning, with words he refused to say.  _ “Be safe,” _ they said,  _ “for I still care for thee”. _ Faraam knew he did not deserve it, and so his heart constricted around itself. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

The army stood by the sea, drowning in a tense atmosphere. The storm clouds that had been following them hung low and dark above, threatening to spill the Prince’s sorrows upon them. A sound echoed in the distant, resounding and grave, enough that it was mistaken for a thunder as first. Soon, however, its true nature showed itself - the beating of thousands of leather wings. The fragile stillness enveloping the army popped like a bubble, and the warriors shouted war cries and they finally advanced on the enemy. The smell of melting metal and burned flesh immediately washed pungent over the salt of the sea. The deafening sound of iron shocks and lightning bolts exploded as the knights attacked. Faraam took it all in, feeling an all-encompassing calm take over him. He was War, and the battlefield was his home.

He needn't say a word to advance in synchrony with Ornstein. They knew each other, their rhythms, the very cadence of their breaths. In the end, they were too entwined to be truly apart. They fought, on and on, drenching their golden plates in dark, thick blood. Around them, soldiers and dragons alike spilled their guts in bloody pools on the sand. Godkind screamed silently, clutching their ripped throats and chests, looked on wide eyed. Scorched, charred black lumps that once were humans lay washed by the tide. Wyverns screeched at the exposed skin under their collapsed scales, lightning eating them alive. At some point, Ornstein shoved his spear, a lighter version of the swordspear Faraam himself bore, into a dragon’s palate, the tip erupting from between the creature’s eyes at the top of its head with an electric crackle. Together, they had just dispatched of a smaller beast when a messenger came running to them, wide eyed and seemingly terrified.

“Your Grace! Sir Ornstein! Prithee! Prithee, come with me!” They begged, hands clasped together. The alluded pair blinked owlishly under their helmets before nodding their agreement.

They ran through droves of warriors still and standing, dragons ahead and overhead. They ran until their noses felt raw from breathing heavily amidst so much smoke. When the messenger stopped, their boots almost churned on the blood-soaked sand. An enormous black dragon roared over broken and split bodies - would be dragonslayers who didn't have the luck to receive the title. Ornstein looked at his Prince, nodding in tandem with him as they slowly walked towards the frightening beast. It roared cinders and ash as it spotted them, sickly yellow eyes blinking in hatred. They charged at it, intent on piercing its throat as it breathed fire, but were swept aside by a clawed paw. The beast tried to stomp them, but they rolled away before its foot could descend on them. They stood again, and Faraam immediately had a bolt of lightning in his hand. Ornstein, faster than the Prince, kept running under the dragon, attempting to reach the wings and cripple them. The creature, however, foresaw his attempt and lifted itself onto its hind legs, breathing fire upon the Golden Knight. He fell on his knees under the assault of the heat. Though his armor protected him greatly against it, such a burst was too great, and he felt the skin on his back and arms burn in hisses and pops. He couldn't hear over the rush of fire around him. And then it stopped. Again, Ornstein heard the crackling of lightning, the dragon’s roar, and he realized it thought him dead.

Grimacing under the pain, the knight stood up, taking deep breaths, praying for a miracle as he took one step after another. He was finally under the leathery wing when he heard it. The most terrible sound he could ever imagine, ripping through his ears. Faraam, screaming in pain and despair. Terrified, Ornstein keened as he shoved a lightning bolt directly into the dragon’s ribcage like a stake. It ripped through the scales, leaving the pink skin underneath exposed in a painful, bloody mess of electric burns. The beast stumbled away from the blow, roaring in agony. It would have reached for Ornstein, bit his burned body into two if not the bleeding Prince holding tight to its maw, swordspear piercing its lower jaw. Staggered onto his knees, the knight forced himself to stand again, setting his stance before charging forward, spear crackling with lightning, piercing through the dragon’s skin like paper. It screeched once more before stumbling twice and falling over. The relative silence that followed was almost maddening. Ornstein took deep breaths through gritted teeth before remembering Faraam’s scream. His chest constricted in absolute fear and he ran on burned legs and back to where he last saw the Prince, now collapsed on the sand, screaming his dry throat raw.

“FARAAM!” The knight cried out. “FARAAM! FARAAM!”

He screamed and screamed, even as he knelt by the god’s side, he could not stop whispering his name. Big puncture wounds - teeth from the beast’s maw - dotted Faraam’s abdomen and back, ugly and jagged from the violent shakes of the lizard’s head. His blood poured out in gallons, washing red the gilded plates of his knight’s armor as Ornstein took him in his arms as gently as he could. His world narrowed down to the Prince’s shallow breaths, to the point where he didn’t notice the messenger standing by his side until the man cleared his throat.

“Sir Ornstein?” His voice was shaky, maybe with fear, maybe confusion. Ornstein couldn't tell, and he didn't care.

“Mayst thou aid me in taking His Grace to the camp? It is urgent.” The knight’s voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if spoken from miles away.

“As are thine orders, General.” The younger man replied without hesitation. His eyes shone bright with awe as Ornstein stumbled onto his feet, carefully bringing Faraam with him. He started, with the messenger’s help, to carry the Prince away from the battlefield, when a heavy impact sounded behind him. With a quick glance backward, the knight confirmed what he feared: another dragon, though decidedly smaller than the first, and with scales the color of clay.

“I order thee to keep going. Thou art to assure the Prince is safe until my return to camp.” Authority permeated the General as he pushed Faraam onto the messenger, turning around to face the dragon. He felt the burned skin on the back of his arms tear as he held his spear in a stance.

“He always was foolish…” The dragon said, seemingly unconcerned with the dragonslayer nearby, limping a step closer to its fallen brother’s head. One of its forelegs was grievously injured, and it had difficulty standing and walking. “Alas, death followeth the Lion, doth it not?”

“Knowest thou such, and still thou art too beastly to know fear.” Ornstein growled at the creature, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Oh, thou art mistaken, of course.” It turned its great head to face the knight. Its eyes were a deep, unwavering blue. “I know fear well. It standeth afore me in golden armor, drenched in the stench of death.”

“If I am thy nightmare, I am so for good reason.” His voice was louder, almost a shout as he stepped closer to the dragon. “Thou shouldst face me not alone, fiend.”

“I have resigned to death. It is an… odd concept. Not one we knew afore thy kind cam’st.” It blinked its great eyes slowly. “Thou hast taught us many things, Golden Lion: “mortality”, “pain”, “fear”, “hatred”. Thou shouldst feel honored; there are not many who can teach an everlasting dragon anything at all.”

“I am simply a knight of War. The folly of thee and thine is to think me the only one.” Ornstein was faced with the reality of what he was doing as he spoke. To converse with a dragon, both too injured to risk attacking, in a liminal space in time.

“Hmm…” The creature’s hum was low and reverberating. “Yes.  _ Dragonslayers. _ We hear thine army’s calls. We know there more. Yet… None are quite as thee, no?”

“Flattery shall take thee nowhere, beast.” The knight hissed, taking a step forward, threatening.

“The other  _ dragonslayers, _ ” the word dropped out of its mouth with a humorous tone, “are just as dangerous, we know. But thou hast become… a symbol. Not to us, but to thine.”

Ornstein took a step back, hunching in in such obvious confusion that the dragon hissed out a reptilian laughter. “Thy kind aspire not to be human or giant or Lord. Silver dreameth of being Gold, Lion Knight. Thy death is the death of their dreams. Thy beating heart keepeth the cadence of thine army’s. Surely thou see’st why I say thou wert the one to teach us fear? Thou didst it not alone, but thou art the symbol of it all, nevertheless.”

Wide eyed and overwhelmed, the knight stepped back into a stance, breathing heavy under his helmet’s snarl. Distantly, he heard the horns of retreat. The dragon shook its head from side to side slowly before awkwardly hopping backwards, extending its brown wings. “I hope we shall meet once more, Lion. Under more auspicious circumstances.” It said before taking a low flight, fiercely beating its wings to gain altitude it could not with a jump. Ornstein shook his head, focusing on his own breathing instead of the pain rippling through him. He could see, not too far away, soldiers running out of the boiling sea in a sickening display of reddened flesh. He watched as the dragons razed the ground behind the retreating army, and the archers and backlines, prepared for the occasion, assaulted them mercilessly with arrows and lightning. After too long, the beasts took flight away, and he was left in the middle of the battlefield, among corpses and carrion. The knight stumbled, questioning whether he was really alive, towards the camp. It seemed surreal to have survived. He felt detached from reality, and perhaps for that reason his feet took him to the Prince’s tent without him thinking about it. All he knew in that moment was that he belonged by Faraam’s side.

None stopped him from entering while he was in his armor. Two of Gwynevere’s Maidens were tending to the half conscious god inside. With a final limp, Ornstein sat by the cot, taking off his helmet to lean his head closer to the Prince. They looked at each other, both dazed and delirious with pain and exhaustion. Awkwardly, they each reached for the other with a hand, fumbling in an attempt to slot their fingers together. They stayed there, in the quiet limbo following a battle, hurt and pained, but living. Ornstein blinked slowly, as exhaustion took over. Looking at Faraam still hurt, still reminded him of the night on the balcony, but he could cherish not having lost him, nonetheless. If pressed, he would not be able to say how long he remained there, half asleep, but a Maiden eventually took his hand, and gently forced him into his own tent. There, someone took off his armor to reveal the burns, making them hurt as if the dragon spit fire on him again. But a miracle soothed the pain as the Maiden cleaned and dressed the worst of it.

“The miracles of Her Grace, Gwynevere, cannot heal all of thine wounds, so thou must rest.” She said, holding his face between her soft hands, forcing him to focus. “I shall send someone to bring thee plenty of water, for thou hast a fever.” With that, she left, no doubt with many others to tend to. Dizzy, Ornstein stumbled over to his cot, falling asleep as soon as he laid his head down.

He knew not how long he slept, but he was certain it wasn't long. His body felt restless, even his teeth seemed to tingle as he slid off his cot. The knight suppressed a groan of pain as the linens scratched against the tender skin. He would scar, he knew. He dressed slowly, noticing how the back of his shin was as tender as his torso. The sole of his left foot was bandaged, leaving him grimacing with the first steps, until he became accustomed with the pain. Even his buttocks were stinging with healing burns. Ornstein took a deep breath in annoyance before sliding on a coat to ward off the inexistent chill that nonetheless kept him shivering. Outside, the clouds had parted, and a golden late afternoon sun bathed the camp. He took the short path between his and Faraam’s tent with a heavy heart. He missed him, but still wanted to slap him across the face. Two knights stood guard to the royal tent, crossing their spears so Ornstein was barred from entering.

“His Grace, Gwynsen, Prince of Sunlight hath been injured and is resting. None are allowed entry without forewarning from the Prince himself.” One of them said, looking at the redhead with a frown. The Golden Knight blinked, unimpressed, looking up into their faces.

“Allow me through, I wish to ascertain His Grace’s well being.” He did not request, but command.

“On whose authority dost thou demand entry?” The other knight asked, masking a snarl in a downturn of lips. Ornstein was tired, and very much did not appreciate the situation.

“Mine own, as his knight and General of yours.” He said, crossing his arms and regretting it as the skin pulled. “Now, allow me through.”

“We shall need proof--” The first one started before being interrupted by a voice inside the tent.

“Allow him in, he speaketh no lies.” At the Prince’s call, the knights nervously uncrossed their weapons, standing at attention before their General. They hadn't recognized him without the armor, and hoped they wouldn't be punished for it. Ornstein, however, simply sighed in annoyance before stepping in through the flaps.

“Art thou well?” The knight’s voice held nothing but an impassive neutrality.

“I am. What of thee?” Faraam, on the other hand, wore every emotion on his skin, let them drip from his mouth with every word.

“Hmm… I shall live.” Was the curt answer; it told nothing, not really.

“I apologize.” The Prince said after a moment of heavy silence, voice catching on the lump in his throat. “I should have stopped it, thou couldst be… There in the field, I thought thou wert...”

“Dragons breathe fire. I know it better than any other.” Ornstein’s tone softened if only a fraction as he looked at the other’s teary expression. “May I see thine wounds, Your Grace?”

“As is thine wish.” Faraam said quietly, voice still shaky, as he took off his tunic so as to expose the bandages around his abdomen.

His knight stepped closer, slowly unwinding the white stripe of cloth dotted with blood. He let it fall on the cot when it was loose, running his fingers over the small punctures still present on the Prince’s stomach. With a push on his shoulder, Faraam turned around, exposing his back to the knight. His hands were warm against Faraam’s skin as they delicately framed the worse of the wounds. With a whispered prayer, the slight sting clinging to them faded. The Prince sighed as the hands on back carded through his hair.

“Wherefore?” He asked, taking the hands in his hair between his own in front of his chest. “Thou art no page, no servant. Thou art a knight, injured in battle. Wherefore dost thou care for me so?”

Faraam waited, but after a long minute of nothing but silence, he continued, with the quietest voice: “I deserve not thy care or attention. Not now. Wherefore, then?”

“I thought the reason clear... ” Ornstein’s reply came after more silence, barely a whisper as he extricated his hands from the Prince’s hold. “I know not if thou canst comprehend it. But I can give thee no more to prove my devotion.”

Faraam turned around as his knight stepped away. He opened his mouth to speak, but the knight stopped in front of the flaps. The warm rays of twilight washed over him, painted crystalline gold the tears slowly running down his face as he turned it to look at the Prince over his shoulder. His voice remained steady, if hoarse, as he spoke again.

“I care for thee for I love thee, Your Grace. As I always shall.” With the promise hanging in the still air, Ornstein exited the tent, leaving behind a Faraam who could barely breathe.

 

He couldn't sleep. The memory of fingers on his stomach and hands on his hair driving him to restlessness. The knight’s words weaved honeyed around him until his head spun. They echoed, over and over, in his mind. He couldn't believe them; he desperately clung to them. Because, out of all who could have said those words, out of all who  _ had, _ it was his knight. The one he had seen emerge from a dragon’s flames to save him. The one whose company never failed to bring a smile to his face. Ornstein, of the unfaltering faith and devotion. His friend, who cared for him even as they remained in less amicable terms. Faraam tossed from side to side, fruitlessly trying to find a reason to the knot his stomach seemed to have tied around itself. Dawn found him with shadows under his eyes and a growing suspicion in his mind that he wasn't certain he wanted to confirm.

Out of force of habit, Faraam rose from his cot, mechanically dressing, frowning and wincing at the sting in his wounds. His skin felt numb out of exhaustion, and he felt all too tired to take the time to brush his hair. He felt sluggish and lonely, and would much rather had stayed in his tent claiming some ache or weakness. But the duty of a god and a Prince was to never waver, and so he headed to his father’s pavilion, to break fast with the other Generals. There, he was greeted with the honors due to him, and took his place by his father’s side. The morning rations were mostly dry and tasteless, as to not irritate weak stomachs in the field, where they could not afford so. Slowly, Faraam became more aware of his surroundings. Slowly blinking, he noticed Ornstein was nowhere to be seen. In itself, that would already be odd, but even more was his father’s answer when he asked of his own knight’s whereabouts.

“Knowest thou not, Gwynsen? Is he not thy dearest?” Gwyn’s voice was laced with mockery, which the Prince relevated with a roll of his eyes. “He findeth himself accosted with a terrible fever, a consequence of his… meeting with dragon fire.”

Wide eyed, Faraam blinked rapidly, the worry setting in with a rush that blew away his sluggishness. Frowning, he excused himself from the table, telling no lies as he claimed he needed to see to his friend’s well being. His exhaustion still clouded his awareness as he briskly walked through the camp, soldiers and tents passing by him in a haze. He couldn't stop his heart from wrenching painfully in his chest the anxious thought of his knight succumbing to the wounds. Faraam knew, of course, that was an almost impossible scenario: godkind were resilient by nature, and his knight, especially. Yet the future conjured by his nerves - his knight dead, gone before his eyes, with nothing he could do against it - brought his tired self close to tears. He felt the ever present loneliness in his chest grow greedily, and alongside it, the fear he felt of it.

None tried to stop him as he entered the knight’s tent, though the Maiden inside did seem ready to demand explanations until she recognized him. With a muttered “Your Grace”, she bowed her head, once more chanting prayers to soothe the knight on the cot. With one look at him, Faraam knew he was in a miserable state. His cheeks were reddened, eyes dark and swollen, lips chapped, and a thin layer of sweat seemed to cover all of the skin the Prince could see. The knight lay almost unnaturally still if not for the constant shivering, deeply asleep in his cot, covered in heavy blankets. It was as if Ornstein’s debilitated form exerted an overpowering magnetism upon the Prince, as he saw himself unable to resist the urge to approach him. He touched the knight’s face gingerly, delicately, as if afraid he might hurt him. His skin was much warmer than Faraam’s, almost scalding, and the heat only worsened the Prince’s anxiety.

Hoarsely, he said to the Maiden: “If thou mayst, request’st for me a chair, so I may sit by his bedside.” She silently agreed.

The hours passed oddly, in a strange pace of too fast and too slow as Faraam drifted in and out of sleep, half laying on the cot, holding one of his knight’s hand tightly in one of his. His head lay on the empty space between Ornstein’s own head and shoulder. The position was awkward, almost painful, but the Prince was too exhausted to care. The Maiden, or perhaps there were more than one, insisted on bringing both men water, and sometimes food. She was adamant that the knight drink as much as his fitful bouts of half-delirious consciousness would allow. Faraam did not contest her, simply worriedly watching as she did her job. Dusk came, and with it a messenger from the Lord of Sunlight, requesting his son’s presence at dinner - a rather rare occurrence, that Faraam was almost certain was to spite him. The Prince sent the man back with a simple “no” as the only answer.

The night was a trial. Ornstein’s fever refused to break, and his sleep seemed disturbed by nightmares. As a consequence, Faraam found himself unable to rest once more. His heart seized time and again at the knight’s quiet cries and disturbed groaning. The worry in his chest grew boundlessly as his thoughts diverted solely to “what if”s; most terrifying of which being “what if this is the end?”. The very notion of it was almost unthinkable - for what would he do without his knight? And between unshed tears of preemptive grief, the Prince realized his fear was not of loneliness or loss. There would always be more knights, another he could train in the art of dragonslaying. There would always be death, such was war, such was he. What he feared, more than anything, was the absence. For his life, without Ornstein, seemed much bleaker, much colder. Without the knight, soft drizzling was nothing more water, and lions were no more than animals. Red was just a color, and gold a metal that saturated vision in his very home. It was then that Faraam noticed he did not  _ want _ to be without his friend. It was then that he noticed the knight’s confession did not bother him, for it was mutual.

Paralyzed by the realization, the Prince simply sat there, holding tight the hand between his, watching Ornstein at last in peaceful rest. Quietly, almost scared, he caressed the knight’s cheek with the back of a hand. His fever seemed to have broken, yet Faraam could not stop shaking.

“Prithee, leave’st thou me not.” He whispered, expecting silence as an answer from the sleeping man.

“Thou art kind, Your Grace, to keep an ailing man company.” Ornstein’s voice was hoarse with sleep, but his eyes were lucid for the first time since the fever overtook him.

“Thou’rt awake! Oh, Ornstein, I was so very worried I--” The Prince said in a rush, stopping himself halfway through, eyebrows drawn together in a saddened frown. “I apologize. For my undue hostility when thou didst naught but offer me succor. It was most unjust of my part and I… I have greatly felt thine absence, and thoroughly hated it.”

Faraam’s breathless confession brought the gentlest smile to the knight’s tired face; as was expected of him, it was but the hint of a curl on his lips, yet it brightened the Prince’s night.

“I forgive thee, Your Grace.” His golden eyes blinked slowly, but retained their unwavering focus on the man by his bedside.

“Thou knowest not how much happiness thou hast brought me, my knight.” Faraam answered, smiling wide in the dim light.

“Though I fear I must disappoint thee and leave.” The knight sounded heavy and serious. “For I fear I am to die in this unfortunate cot.”

“What? No! Thou shalt not! I shall call for the Maidens and--” The Prince’s panicked, immediate response brought a chuckle out of Ornstein, who closed his eyes as he answered.

“Fear’st thou not. It was but a jest, Your Grace.”

Faraam breathed heavily, heaving an anguished sigh before looking down at the knight, frowning. “A most undesired jest. Thou must leave me not. Thou’rt my knight, my first knight.”

“There are many others who would be more than delighted at the very prospect of serving thee in my place.” The knight replied matter-of-factly; it was, after all, an undeniable truth.

“I care not for such many others. I do not wish for them by my side. I wish for thee, and thee only.” Faraam’s voice carried a simmering certainty that shone through in his eyes as he brought the knight’s hand to his chest. “For there is none other I love as I do thee.”

“I know.” Ornstein said, blinking owlishly, hint of a smile in his face at his friend’s confusion. “Thou need’st say not, for thine actions speak for thee.”

“Thou dost believe me, then?” The question was shy, in the manner of a teenager confessing to a minor transgression.

“Of course. Thou art my Prince, as I am thy knight.” He sat up, framing Faraam’s face with his hands, and bringing their foreheads together. “I trust thee more than any other.”

“And I thee.” The Prince’s smile was bright, a sun of its own.

“We shall never be apart,” Ornstein said, perhaps ironically leaning back, “and if fate so desire’st us to be, I shall find thee, no matter the miles between us.”

“And I shall wait for thee.” Faraam took the hands on his cheeks in his, briefly kissing the knuckles before holding them between the two men. “No matter how long it may take.”

They smiled at each other as a thunder sealed their promise. It stormed outside, as it befit the god of War.

**Author's Note:**

> haha fuck they're so gay i mean me too but damn
> 
> ornstein: if i just never tell him, i can be a besotted fool in secret.  
> also ornstein: just fyi i love you? and i would die for you.  
> faraam: ily too but please don't
> 
> EDIT: haha no fuck explicit rating


End file.
